


love's pure flame

by dreamsoverdeath (dheiress)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animal Metaphors, Aromantic Character, Bisexual Character, Consensual Underage Sex, Denial, Disapproving Nagini Disapproves, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Harry too is denying things, Hypocrisy, I'm looking at you Tom, M/M, Metaphorical Sex, Possessive Behavior, Unrealistic Sex, Unrequited Love, Very Unrealistic Sex, Voldemort in Denial, Weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 06:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13241964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dheiress/pseuds/dreamsoverdeath
Summary: Bella lets out a moan and such a sickly sweet sound it is, he regrets silencing Harry last night. An instinctive measure, silencing the boy was but now he cannot help but wonder what sort of noise would have came out of the darkness of Harry’s mouth. Would that unwillingly pleasured ‘o’ have given him a whimper to collect his mind or a sigh to further lose his control?...This is half-inspired by that scene in Hannibal (fannibalsyouknowwhatimtalkingabout!) and half an attempt on my part to rationalize Cursed Child (as you can see it isn’t rational at all) to myself. Set vaguely in HBP.





	love's pure flame

**Author's Note:**

> *cries at the 5000+ words of utter filth*
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings:
> 
> Probably you’ll notice some tenses are weird or just wrong. That’s because time is weird and/or maybe because yours truly is not a native English speaker and has not yet fully grasped the concept of tenses (and time itself). I’m not sure. Anyway please point out any grammatical mistake you see. I’ll try my best to correct them. Also, the relationship tags get kind of blurry. I’ve written this fic with the intention of Harrymort as the main pairing but due to its nature other people will surely not agree. So. Read with caution. But if you like surreal, metaphorical scenes of sexual content go, my dears, and read on. 
> 
> Have some fire works this Happy New Year!

 

 

 

Where true Love burns Desire is Love’s pure flame;

It is the reflex of our earthly frame,

That takes its meaning from the nobler part,

And but translates the language of the heart.

 

 _Desire_ , Samuel Taylor Coleridge

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lord Voldemort is not certain which has came first: the inexplicable _burning_ urge or the dream about a particular green-eyed boy writhing in pleasure.

 

He suspects both.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There is a prickling, just a touch warm, underneath the thin first layer of his skin, like sharp fingernails languidly swirling against his bare flesh. It births a quiet but insistent impulse to peel, to chafe his hide raw. Lord Voldemort stares down at the parts of himself he can see—his hands, his arms, his feet—and wonders if he would shed this silky membrane covering his remade body just like his dear Nagini, just like Slytherin's long gone basilisk.

 

Would he find youth, he ponders, would he find _life,_ underneath the old, dead skin?

 

 

“—my Lord?” she is saying.

 

He blinks, takes a long silent breath and the world focus itself again as Lord Voldemort refrains from dwelling on such pointless thoughts. The Carrow woman kneels on Abraxas’ polished white granite floor, asking for permission to search and torture Harry Potter’s muggle family. She is not as brilliant as Bella, not as powerful, not even close, nonetheless he finds himself deeply amused by her mindless thirst to inflict pain. Lord Voldemort is confident that her plan to flush Potter out of Hogwarts with his adoptive family will not work, even in the improbable event that she does manage to locate and capture them. He has seen the boy’s memories, knows of the cupboard under the stairs. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia Dursley will not be as beautiful a lure as Sirius Black has been.

 

Nevertheless. He nods his assent at her, curious what she will do to the muggles that will be in her way once she realizes the futility of her effort. As Carrow leaves with a deranged smile, at his right, just behind him, Bellatrix makes a wanting noise. “My Lord,” she whines, “Please let me go, too, I will—”

 

“My dear Bella,” he chuckles, facing this untamed horse, his chaotic lieutenant, “You must stay here, do you understand?”

 

“Yes, my Lord,” she swiftly vows though she most probably does not. “I am yours to command, as always.” Her fanatic deference has always charmed him and does Lord Voldemort not reward his most devoted servants? He knows what she wants, has always known for Lord Voldemort is not ignorant of the needs of the flesh, so he reaches out and caresses her cheeks, gaunt and pale, with the back of his hand. The contact, surprisingly, soothes him too. It cools the warm itch under his skin so he lingers, ignoring Nagini’s disapproving hisses. Both Rodolphus Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy wisely stay silent and still in the shadowed corners of the room.  He runs his knuckles across her jaw and Bella makes a different kind of wanting noise, her eyes closing in unconscious expectation and her whole body swaying towards him. He tilts his head sideways and for a moment Lord Voldemort openly considers it, considers stepping closer and devouring—

 

Lord Voldemort steps away, directs his wayward body to his own chambers, calling out to his darling Nagini in a soft hiss, “ _Come Nagini, let us sleep.”_ He leaves the room with nary a word to any of them and traverses the cold hallways of Malfoy Manor with Nagini, the soft hiss of her winding trail complimenting the sharp cuts of his bare footsteps. She raises her head, “ _You smell troubled, master.”_

_“I feel ill, my dear,”_ he confesses, for only she is trustworthy enough to hear this. He runs his fingers across his bare scalp where the itching has sluggishly spread like spilt oil. Heavy, slick. Irritating. His sweet Nagini’s tongue flicks out, “ _Master, you smell warm.”_

_“I do feel warm,”_ he says, “ _like something is telling me that I need to get out of this skin. I do not…”_ He trails off and Nagini does not, cannot, answer. For as beloved and trusted as she is, Nagini is, after all, just a snake ignorant of the complexities outside feeding and killing for her master. “ _Do not worry for Lord Voldemort, my pet_ ,” he whispers instead, stroking her cold hard scales, “ _I may simply be in need of sleep.”_

 

But Lord Voldemort does not find sleep easily that night and when sleep finds him at last it is not the dark oblivion he has become accustomed to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

(   h e   closes his eyes and thinks   o f   )

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lord Voldemort cannot remember the last time he has dreamt without purpose. Last year, he has fed Harry Potter the carefully crafted images of the Hall of Prophecies in the Department of Mysteries and of the hurt the men that acted like a father to the boy had endured, both real and imaginary. He will not have been surprised if it is the Hall he is seeing now in his dreams—that can be explained by his mind latching on something he has thought of for a long while. But no, this is not the place where Lucius has spectacularly failed to fulfil Lord Voldemort’s desire; this is not even the Ministry.

 

This is _Hogwarts._

 

He knows this sight, the familiar four-postered beds with surrounding heavy curtains and trunks haphazardly opened and closed with knickknacks and baubles scattered on the floor in a manner only teenage boys can seem to accomplish. Has he not spent seven years on that very same bed, contentment and safety dwelling deep in his bones? But, Lord Voldemort thinks as his gaze swiftly sweeps around the room, he has not dreamt of the Slytherin dormitory ever since—

_No._

 

Outside the big glass windows of the dormitory, the clouds has shifted, allowing moonlight to trickle in and Lord Voldemort sees not the green and silver draperies he has grown fond of but _red and gold_. Not the Slytherin’s dormitory, but Gryffindor’s _._

And there, on the bed Lord Voldemort has been unconsciously gravitating to, writhes a half-naked _Harry Potter_.

 

Though sometimes he hears echoes of the boy’s thoughts, he has not, even once, willingly entered Harry Potter’s mind again. He has no more use of the boy’s mind, which is toxically mundane with its obsessive thoughts of golden snitches and red-haired girls, he has said to himself and his followers. That the affair at the Ministry, the painful possession of the boy, last year has left him burned and queasy of the mere idea, he dare not say to anyone. His eyes narrow in thought, but even if somehow he strays into the boy’s mind in his sleep he should have been seeing from Harry Potter’s eyes. Not like an outsider—his eye catches a fragment of a mirror in Harry’s trunk and grey eyes fractionally widened in alarm at what Lord Voldemort sees—much less so an outsider who looks remarkably like a sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle.

 

So, why is he here, standing like a spectre of the past at Harry Potter’s bedside, watching the child prophesied to vanquish Lord Voldemort pleasure himself?

 

 

* * *

 

 

(          H     a    r  r  y     _p u lls_  on his member with one hand, the other hand busy with muffling his moans. He has casted several silencing and notice-me-not charms but there is still that deeply buried disbelief in magic half a decade of practicing cannot seem to uproot that has him hiding his nightly deeds in a more muggle way. He throbs, stiff and heavy, in his own tugging hand as he closes his eyes and thinks of Ginny and her kisses.

 

Ron would surely kill him if he gets even a smidgen of idea that it is his little sister that Harry is thinking of so lewdly. He has been trying his best, Ron that is, to look at the other direction when Harry and Ginny moves together towards a secluded corner every free time that they share. Harry is grateful that his best friend has been more understanding than when Dean had been dating Ginny, so that is why he is not telling Ron, or anybody else for that matter, that it is not only kisses on the lips that Harry and Ginny shares.

 

“Ginny,” he breathes, hand moving faster.

 

Harry loves Ginny, loves the way her red hair catches the sun to look like a fiery halo, loves the way her eyes crinkle almost shut whenever she laughs, he loves her shuddering breaths against his cheeks. She makes him burn in a way that feels right, in a way that makes him want more. He imagines her beneath him, shoulders bare and chest heaving, face flushed and gasping. Her hair a halo of red, like a sun, like—

 

—blood, her face pale and slack, her hands on her unmoving chest. The floor is slick beneath them, dark with dank water and century old grime.

 

“Ginny,” he breathes, hands fluttering over her cold body.

 

“Please wake up,” he prays, sobs. Dimly, he hears soft footsteps, a heavy and intimate warmth blanketing him, and then a voice he knows as well as his own, “She won’t wake.”

 

Harry looks up, his mouth forming an ‘o’ around the name before his mind catches up, “ _Tom? Tom—”_

 

His eyes blink open and Tom Riddle’s handsome face is scant inches away from his. Harry’s legs tremble, he tries to push Riddle away from him but his wrists are already pinned by something he cannot see above his head. There is a familiar wetness pooling, drying on his stomach—what? When did he?

 

“Let go of—” Harry starts to yell but this ghost of Tom Riddle that is haunting his dream (because it must be a dream, what else could this nightmare be?) makes a gesture with his fingers and while he feels his mouth shaping the words, no other sound fall from his lips.

 

“Harry Potter,” says the face of Tom Riddle with the voice of Voldemort. A myriad of emotions spikes through Harry’s body at once: panic, anger, confusion, embarrassment, fear, and _want_. The boy above him must have seen through him for he smiles, a wickedly sharp curve of a grin that turns the attractive face to something inhuman.

 

“Harry,” Riddle says, forcefully fitting himself between Harry’s shaking legs as if he were meant to be there. Harry’s head lolls to the side and he closes his eyes, thinking, _no, not this, please no—_

 

“ _Tell me, Harry,”_ Voldemort whispers against his ear, breath cold and wispy, “ _who were you thinking of when you spent yourself in your_   _own hands?”_

 

Harry says a silent _no_ , and if possible he would have closed his eyes harder. He wills himself to wake up, to get out the heavy of confines of another boy’s chest and arms. He tries to think of Ginny, her red hair and her warm laughter, trying to direct back this nightmare into a sweet fantasy he understands. It works; he sees sunlight, her laughing honey coloured eyes and her freckled face—

 

—waxy, her hands still possessively gripping the diary even in her death—

 

Harry screams another silent _no_ and he pedals back from the bright red image until he hits the comfort of _black_.

_Oh how sweet,_ Voldemort’s voice says inside the darkness of his mind, _Ginevra Weasley._ Laughter, high and mocking, echoes inside his head. _You’re in love with her._ And Harry grits out, _Get out, get the fuck out._ A tsk, a patronizing sound. Harry tries bucking against the weight above him and succeeded in bringing his sated member in contact with a clothed one. He recoils back immediately.

 

“ _Is that the power you’ve been taunting me with all this time, Harry? The power Lord Voldemort knows not? The power of love?”_ The voice above him spits. Two hands, large and harsh in their grip, grab hold of his thighs and break them _open_. Harry trashes against it, _I’ll tell you a secret, Harry._ His ‘s’ strokes along Harry’s length as the ends of his ‘y’ winds around Harry’s throat. Harry thinks of Ginny, her brown eyes locked on his, her red hair twisted around his fingers, her red lips in a pleasured ‘o’ that turns into a lying ‘c’ and his hands tugs against bonds he cannot see, the red eyes of Lord Voldemort smirking down at him—

_“Lord Voldemort knows of that love you speak so highly of,”_ hisses the boy and Harry opens his eyes and he sees the red eyes of Lord Voldemort smirking down at him from the beautiful face of Tom Riddle. And, Merlin, Harry feels lust, feels the smoky attraction swirling down his member, pulling the blood pumping wildly in his chest down, down, down—

_“It’s nothing so special, Harry,”_ comes the whisper against his ear, in his mind, from his own mouth and a naked chest settles firmly against Harry’s. The contact electrifies him, the sparks travelling down to his fingers, to his toes, all of them curling in anticipation. Harry’s vision blurs and a mouth is sucking against his neck, hard. Harry’s blood do not know which way to go anymore, up to where those lips are latched in a toothy clasp or down where there are fingers pressing pleasure into him.

_Let me show you._

 

Suddenly, there’s an insistent nudge _right there_ , the place Harry avoids going when he pleasures himself, unsure where it may lead. Like a lightning, unbidden and unwelcome, an image forces itself into Harry’s mind, and he   _r e m e m b e r s_

_t h e     b a s i l i s k_

_slipping out of an open mouth, Slytherin’s open mouth, lazy and insidious at the same time, it emerges from the darkness of an ‘o’ and_

_it_ slips inside Harry, an entrance in reverse, as if it were meant to be there all along. Harry is so grateful for whatever enchantment holds him silent because he doesn’t have to hear the sound his mouth is making, opening and closing as it is repeatedly in a pleasured ‘o’ as he feels _it_ moving inside him, entering again and again but never truly exiting—

 

“ _Harry Potter_ ,” Voldemort hisses with Tom Riddle’s face. Harry stares at that handsome face in a daze, almost uncomprehending, barely feeling the fingers sliding up his chest, “such a wanton creature”, dipping slightly inside his mouth, “such a sweetly tight _chamber_ ”, and crawling to his _forehead,_ “ _burn for me_ ”.

 

Ha r r  y     _s  c  r  e   a   m    s_ )

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lord Voldemort’s eyes blink open and Nagini is twisting above and around him in frantic coils, hissing, “ _Master, where have you gone? You were here but you are not, where did you go?”_

He ignores her, pushing her writhing bulk from him along with the warm furs he has cocooned himself in before sleeping. Nagini nips him for this slight, drawing blood from his hand with an indignant hiss but she draws away from him too, in a sulk. The prickling under his skin has now turned to a scorching madness and Lord Voldemort needs to immediately get out of these ill-fitting clothes, this ill-fitting skin. He thinks madly that it is as if there were several creatures trying to get out of this body Lord Voldemort has remade from the broken fragments of his past, present and future.

 

He vanishes the black robes constricting him and Lord Voldemort stares down at the parts of himself he can see—his hands, his arms, his stomach, his feet, his legs, his thighs, his _cock_. The last of them flushes angrily in red, throbbing for a warm tightness ( _Harry, the ends of the ‘y’ curling so snugly around his arousal like an invisible serpent)_ it has never felt in reality. He wants to scratch his skin out for this betrayal, for this burning _want_ sparking like electricity through his flesh. What immaturity to be so deeply embroiled in such a dream that he has lost his perfect control, he curses. He isn’t one of the creatures he finds pitiful, the one that succumbs to their flesh and forgets who they are. Still, he remembers the perfect ‘o’ the boy’s red lips had contorted to and Lord Voldemort wants to _pound_ —

 

Lord Voldemort snarls, taking himself in his hands and, doing so for the first time in years, in decades, in a lifetime, he _pulls—_

* * *

 

 

(     w   a  r m  fingers replace his own from rubbing his forehead. “Bad dream?” she asks and Harry basks in her flowery scent, pressing his cheeks into her palm. The contact soothes the itch under his skin, dulling the head-pounding noise of the Great Hall to an annoying buzzing in his ears. He isn’t sure what happened in his dreams last night but he vaguely remembers her there.

 

“Can’t be,” he says, smiling as he kisses her palms, “You were there. Just a little bit weird, I think, I can’t really remember the whole thing.”

 

She laughs, eyes almost crinkling shut. “Harry Potter,” she says, her tone mockingly scandalized. She leans to his ear and whispers conspiringly, “Were you having weird _sex_ y dreams about me, hm, Harry?”

 

He feels himself flushing, feels the questioning glance both Hermione and Ron throw them from the other side of the table, but her cheeky grin allows him to return one in kind. “Maybe,” he whispers back. Crowding into his space, she takes his face in her hands and breathes, “After practice, maybe we can stay back in the stalls? I’m going to show you something, you wanton creature—”

 

and his grin  cr a  c  k   s      )

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mind over matter.

 

Lord Voldemort understands the pursuits of the mind are more sublime than that of the matter composing his body. However, it appears that he has excessively neglected the latter that it has started to impinge on the former. The boiling itch underneath his skin has calmed itself into a mere annoying prickling he can resolutely ignore but there can be no respite for Lord Voldemort anymore if there is a possibility last night will recur. He caresses Nagini, who has graciously forgiven him for heaving her off the bed, in contemplation.

 

Evidently, the negligence must be corrected and Lord Voldemort is not an ignorant to not discern the manner it must be done. He has experimented in his youth, of course, has taken men and women into his bed, has shivered in pleasure and has others shiver in turn. Ultimately, what he has understood from the experience is that it is something he can enjoy but not something he will actively seek out. He prefers the sight of people’s eyes widening in realization, in awe, in fear at how much Lord Voldemort is better, worthier, way above them in all manner of the word. Which makes last night an abnormality that has warning bells ringing off in his mind. Harry Potter should not have an effect like that on Lord Voldemort. He simply must _not_. His grip on Nagini’s lovely coils tightens.

 

“Rodolphus?” he calls out to one of the shadows lurking in the dining hall of the Malfoys.

 

“My Lord?” it answers. Studying the man for a moment, Lord Voldemort finds it _funny_ that the man can already tell what his Lord will ask and still he answers so obediently. Lord Voldemort would never, no matter who is asking or even if he does not truly love the woman, he would _never_. What is his is only _his_.

 

“Have Bella come to my chambers tonight.”

 

The man bows, not even a slight hint of hesitation in his movements, “As you wish, my Lord.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

(     k  i s ses in the dark, her teeth biting his lips. Curfew will not take effect until an hour or so but the quidditch pitch and the Players’ stalls have already been abandoned, most of the students flocking to the Library to study for exams or to the Great Hall to wait impatiently for dinner. She grinds her hips against his and he cannot help but throw his head back and groan. She laughs, a sound that never fails to make him giddy, and then latches on his exposed neck with fervour. Her hands tug his robes open and his breath hitches but he manages to catch her wrists before she goes down to his breeches.

 

“Ginny,” he warns, growls. Ignoring him, she licks a stripe up his neck and whines, “let’s do it.”

 

 _You’re fifteen,_ he wants to say but his tongue freezes because she will probably break up with him for that.

 

“What?” dazedly comes out of his mouth instead.

 

“I want my first time to be with you, Harry,” she says, riding one of his legs. “Ron will kill me,” he protests though he finds himself already rising up to her challenge. She shakes her head at him, her red mane swaying with her exasperation, “He doesn’t have to know.”

 

“I’ve read things,” she continues, rushing through her words, “I know how to, you won’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re afraid of, I know how to make it good for the both of us.”

 

He stares at her, at her daring smile and her hands undoing her own robes fast and there is a prickling, suddenly turning from warm to scorching, under his skin. It’s like sharp fingernails madly swirling against his bare flesh and it makes him kiss her hard before hissing out a frantic  _y  e   s_     )

 

 

* * *

 

 

She stands before him, strong and naked, and his gaze curves up from her dainty feet, to her legs with its lean muscles, to her thighs with a sultry welcome of a gap between. Her stomach is taut, for she has never bear a child, and her dark nipples atop the swells of her white breasts are hardening the longer he stares at her. She has twined her arms behind her back, so that her Lord can indulge his eyes upon her bare flesh. She is the exact personification of pure-blood power and pride except perhaps for her shoulders which betray the excitement she has not yet voiced and her womanhood which has started to glisten as soon as his eyes touches her skin.

 

Lovely girl, is Bella not?

 

Lord Voldemort leans back on the pillows Lucius and his family has so reverently given him when he first came here. This must have been Abraxas’ most favoured room, if not the master’s suite in the Manor, given the decadent nature of the furniture. He tries to stroke his Nagini’s cold scales only to remember that she has slithered off to the other side of the building, as if her venomously spat hisses are not enough to convey her extreme displeasure with this rendezvous.

 

He beckons with a finger and Bella moves, silently, to the edges of his bed.

 

“My Lord,” she breathes heavily.

 

Look at her, the manically confident Bella so flustered in front of her Lord.

 

He places a hand on her hip, guides her to his lap. Her flesh is firm but her body is supple under his palm. He bends forward, sniffs the scent of her between the valleys of her breasts just as he slips the fingers of the hand not holding her hip inside her. She smells of arousal, of total surrender, of darkness.

 

“My Lord,” she says again, eyes fluttering shut, “I am yours, please use me as you desire, your pleasure is mine, I—”

 

He shifts his fingers, wandering inside her with no true destination in mind. Bella lets out a moan and such a sickly sweet sound it is, he regrets silencing Harry last night. An instinctive measure, silencing the boy was but now he cannot help but wonder what sort of noise would have came out of the darkness of Harry’s mouth. Would that unwillingly pleasured ‘o’ have given him a whimper to collect his mind or a sigh to further lose his control?

 

Bella proves to be ready, so he withdraws his hand and flicks her essence from his skin. She must have prepared herself before coming here this evening. Among his favourites, perhaps aside only from Severus, she is the one able to correctly divine his requests the most. Positioning her above him, he holds her steady for several breaths before dropping her on his cock. He grips her hips and instructs, “Now, my dear Bella, show Lord Voldemort the pleasure you can give him.”

 

She shows him giddily, riding him, rolling her hips in a slow, continuous ‘s’ as if she were a serpent atop of him. Her seizing heat cools him and he seeks to bring more of her to him, so he can cure this strange affliction bestowed upon him, so he can smother this fire with her shadow. He rises up and—he stills.

 

Lord Voldemort glimpses _them_ from the corner of his eye, the two ghosts reflected in a mirror tucked innocuously to a corner of his chamber. _They_ are an accurate reversal of Lord Voldemort and his most loyal servant. Below, s _he_ is bright and young and lively, her hair a halo of a bloody sun and her naked thighs straining in their possessive clutch; above, _he_ is simply stunning, his mouth distorting again and again in that pleasured ‘o’ that Lord Voldemort knows well and—

 

He feels a prickling, a burning, underneath the thin first layer of his skin, like sharp fingernails furiously scratching his bare flesh because _how dare she touch what is Lord Voldemort’s possession—_

* * *

 

 

(     t  o o  hot, Merlin, it is too hot, Ginny is burning him but Harry cannot stop his hips from moving, cannot do anything else but seek her embrace again and again. So tight around him, her arms, her legs, her…her- _her everything_.

 

“Ha-harry,” she gasps, drawing him closer as if every inch of their feverish skin is not pressed together already. He settles his forehead against hers, shakingly inhales the breath she exhales. Harry closes his eyes, lets his body thrust on its own. It is as if there were invisible hands on his hips, directing him what to do, how fast to go.

 

“Bloody hell,” he moans as his nipples stiffen, rubbing excitedly as they are against hers. They both smell of sweat and grass and broom polish and other things. The sting her fingernails leave on his back only delineates the pleasure of this moment. The slick slaps as his flesh against hers a debauched accompaniment melody for this act. He feels something building up at the base of his skull, in the pit of his stomach, at the tips of his toes, along the length of his cock.

 

In, out, in, out, in, out.

 

Ah, ah, ah—

 

Such wanton creatures, are they not?

 

“Oh, Harry,” he says and Harry’s eyes blink open at the sound.

 

Below him smiles an amalgamation of Tom Riddle and Voldemort.

 

“You,” he cries as he impulsively raises his body away from this nightmare ( and Merlin something like this happened last night, hasn’t it? He remembers this panic, this anger, this confusion, this embarrassment, this fear. _This want_ ) only for the hands on his hips to pull him down to the solid chest below.

 

“ _Really, Harry_ ,” drawls the voice of Lord Voldemort casually, as if his fingers are not digging crescent wounds in Harry’s hips, as if there is no edged hiss lying beneath his smile, “ _in the stalls? Hardly romantic for a first time, don’t you think_?”

 

My Lord, ah, ah, my Lord, I am your servant, I, ahh, I exist for you to use—

 

His mind reeling, the only thing Harry manages to utter is, “wha?”

 

Tom Ridd—Voldemort, Voldemort whose serpentine face overlays with Tom Riddle’s handsome face, grins, his taut smile transforming into a manic crescent of bone white teeth. One of the hands on Harry’s hips crawls away, down to his bum and slips into the crack—

 

“ _What are you doing,”_ hisses Harry just as the contact of fingers against his, his- _that_ _place_ shocks him to more sensible words. Harry tries to lean away, to move, to _stop_ but there is an arm around his shoulders, legs around his torso and a voice somewhere faraway that tells him to go on, go harder, please, I’m so close Harry, just a little, here I’ll give you something—

 

A finger slips inside him and Harry jerks at the sensation of having something that is not his inside of his body. It wriggles around, trying to get that winking period to stretch into a gaping ‘o’ but it is not enough, so there comes another, then another and it _hurts_ , the way they keep shifting inside Harry.

 

Someone laughs and Harry instantly recalls who is with him. Voldemort, with the face of Tom Riddle that is rapidly becoming more serpentine as Harry stares at him, is laughing at him.

 

“ _Look at you_ ,” he croons, as if Harry were his beloved pet snake.

 

“ _The boy who lived crying so prettily for pleasure only Lord Voldemort can give him.”_

He licks a long electrifying stripe from the base of Harry’s neck, to his cheeks, to the corners of his eyes where, Harry realizes horrifyingly, tears are beginning to pool. Volde—Tom?— _Voldemort._ He roughly presses his free hand on Harry’s nape while the fingers of the other twist _just so_ and— _bloody  h e l  l     )_

 

 

* * *

 

 

The boy moans above him and the lustful sound is as exquisite to Lord Voldemort’s ears as his painful screams had been under the cruciatus.

 

Lord Voldemort eyes blink open and above him, Bella’s black eyes are wide open, her black curls bouncing with her hips, her mouth agape with her pledges of fealty. “Close your eyes,” he orders and she obeys in an instant. He grasps her long hair—too long, Harry’s is not like that at all—and winds it around one of his fists, tugging until she bends _just so_. The angle works and he needs to see the boy now, needs to _think—_

 

Lord Voldemort lifts her from him completely, both of her mouths twitching in disappointment. He holds the lean hips steady above his lap, taking a moment to appreciate the soft flesh and fine muscles underneath his fingertips, before plunging Harry down onto his waiting cock.

 

The boy wails, his eyes squeezed shut as if the act can force the intrusion away. He is wrong, of course, Lord Voldemort would never leave him. He would _never_.

 

_Harry Potter is Lord Voldemort’s._

He plunders the body above him, thrusting inside again and again but never leaving entirely. There is that burning again, inside, around, _everywhere_ , but this time Lord Voldemort decides that he must not kill it. Doing so will only worsen it. _He must control it._ Harry convulses and twists, a thrashing furnace inside his arms, but Lord Voldemort does not let the boy go.

 

“ _Harry,”_ Lord Voldemort whispers, his breath a lingering echo in Harry’s ears, in his mind. Harry feels the sweat and tears sliding down his cheeks, his neck, his chest. It’s too good, merlin, it’s too good. The thing, Volde-Voldemort’s... _the_ _appendages_ , sliding inside him, scraping his insides raw—it feels too good for Harry to stop, so much better than the pulsing heat around him. Every thrust is an electric jolt that curls his toes, boils his blood, numbs his brain and reduces him to a sweltering mass capable only of releasing a continuous urging series of ‘ _no, no, no_ ’.

 

Someone lets out an ecstatic sound, someone sweet and girly but also someone fierce and bright. Lord Voldemort wants to butcher this girl, tear her apart limb by limb but he knows she is part of the reason Harry can be ravaged like this for she has caged the boy and opened him to Lord Voldemort, for Lord Voldemort. Harry’s eyes fly open and the world momentarily focuses on Ginny’s pliant body, her breasts that slightly bounce with each of his thrusts. Though a tad looser grip than before, her legs are still wrapped around his torso, her left arm around his shoulder. Her right arm hugging his sides, her hand resting on Harry’s bum, her fingers _inside_ —

 

—a _cock,_ large and merciless, hammering _that place_ to the rhythm of the sharp slaps of skin and hisses of ownership. Knuckles swirl on his sides as fingers pinch his nipples.

 

“ _Where have you gone, Harry? You must stay with me.”_

 

His head is aching, his whole body is, but it’s such a delicious pain, the kind that has him sobbing out for more. Harry lets out a shaky cry, only for Lord Voldemort to devour it whole. His mouth commandeering the boy's as if it were his own. The boy bites him, in vengeance or in excitement, it is not certain. There is a lot of things not certain at the moment, the tension in their arching backs and curling toes converting to a heaving pressure at the roots of their cocks. A thrust, and then another, and another. Voldemort is inside him, around him, everywhere, his torturous electrifying touch not on Harry’s skin but on a deeper, more intimate plane. A thrust, and then another, and another. Pleasure leaves the tips of Harry’s fingers, his toes, his limbs, his head; it pools at the bottom of his stomach, split between two places. He’ll spend soon and Harry’s body knows it, is in fact seeking its approaching completion by both ramming into the tight heat around and springing onto the thick member pistoning inside of him.

 

A thrust

 

in me, my Lord, please, in me, your most faithful

 

inside, Harry, it’s alright, inside me

 

_Look at me, Harry._

 

 and then another

 

oh, oh, oh

 

my Lord, my Lo-lord, my

 

_Remember who made you feel like this, it is Lord Voldemort that has shown you pleasure like this, not your pitiful hand, not your impudent girl._

 

and another

 

o-oh, please, come inside

 

th-there, right there, oh fuck

 

_you are mine, do you understand, you are mine_

and then—

 

 

* * *

 

 

They are both panting heavily when Lord Voldemort blinks his eyes open.

 

Bella quivers above him, the insides of her thighs, which are splayed wide open on his lap, glossy with both of their releases. The memory of the electrifying fire that is Harry’s skin makes her feel clammy and uncomfortable against Lord Voldemort. It urges him to thrust her off him but Bella has served him well tonight and is not Lord Voldemort a gracious master?

 

“Bella,” he says, swirling an ‘s’ on her cheeks with the knuckle of his middle finger. “You have performed Lord Voldemort’s request well tonight, my dear.”

 

“My Lord,” she cries, pressing close-mouthed kisses to the tips of his fingers, “thank you, thank you—”

 

“But leave me now, Bella. Go back to your chambers,” Lord Voldemort softly commands, and whatever bright, glistening emotion he perceives in her eyes dies a swift death as it must. She takes a breath, a breath longer than what Lord Voldemort would allow his other followers before declaring death for disobedience, but she stands up eventually and leaves the room, as naked as she has came.

 

There is a prickling, just a touch warm, underneath the thin first layer of his skin, like sharp fingernails languidly swirling against his bare flesh. Lord Voldemort stares down at the parts of himself he can see—his hands, his arms, his stomach, his feet, his legs, his thighs, his _cock_. All of them ruddy, the heat of the blood rising to the surface trapped under the normally milk white skin. They look...absurdly human, sated (he is not satisfied) after a carnal tryst.

 

Lord Voldemort stares down at the parts of himself he can see and he imagines them staring back at him, deliriously flushing but also accusing, mocking, and questioning all at once.

_Do you understand?_

 

Lord Voldemort knows already that he and sleep would not find each other tonight.

 

 

* * *

  
  


 

(     T  h ey  are both panting heavily when Harry blinks his eyes open.

 

“Harry, you bit your lips bloody,” she observes, her voice dulled by the hissing in his ears. She makes a move to wipe it off, to kiss the blood away, to do something. Harry ducks away from her, quickly mutters a reassurance before licking the blood off himself (it doesn’t taste like his).

 

Ginny withdraws her fingers.

 

“Enjoyed it that much?” she asks, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Harry stares at her, and it takes a long while for his mind to place where he is, who he is with, what he has been doing. Oh, Merlin. Tomorrow, he will (needs to) forget what has happened, he will make sure of it, if he has to obliviate himself for that to happen then he will. But for now, he bows his head, settles his forehead against her and closes his eyes so that she doesn’t see how painful (how true) is the confession he makes.

 

 _Y e  s_     )

 

 


End file.
